


From Whence We Came

by Im_Shadows_Secret



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Banshee Moira O'Deorain, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Witch Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27202774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_Shadows_Secret/pseuds/Im_Shadows_Secret
Summary: Angela Ziegler, head medical researcher at Overwatch, is also a witch. Her enhanced abilities have propelled her through the ranks, and if her secret is discovered her career would be over. Moira O’Deorain, Blackwatch’s newest scientific researcher, is the current victim of an ancient family curse, and if she doesn’t get it under control it could prove to be deadly.When the two women meet for the first time each senses the power the other holds. Their relationship will either be each other's key to success, or the end of everything they hold dear.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Guys! I do a lot of creative writing in my free time, but this will be my first published full length fic! If you enjoy this at all you can find more of my writing over at my Tumblr blog overladies-love-ladies!! ^v^ Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> T/W for this chapter: Some body horror, mild swearing
> 
> Translations at end of chapter!

October 5th, 2067, 7:00:00

The day Moira O’Deorain leaves her lab in Dublin for Blackwatch’s science division is the day the family curse catches up to her. Perhaps the spirit is angry she’s leaving her homeland. Perhaps it’s karma punishing her for her questionable practices. Or, perhaps, it’s just her luck. 

Whatever the case, the throbbing in her right arm is awfully inconvenient as she rolls her luggage cart across the airport terminal. Each bump in the tile sends jolts of pain through her muscle. When two harried attendants rush forward at once to help her pale, sweating figure lift a suitcase into the trunk of the car waiting outside, she muses that perhaps she should have accepted the assistant Commander Reyes offered to send ahead for her. 

When she slides into the back of the sedan, she dares to skim her fingers across her arm and finds the skin is cold and clammy. She’s reminded of the first time she ever worked on a cadaver. 

The man on the steel table was gray and spongy, drained of all signs of life. That particular cadaver was nearing the end of his time in the lab. His limbs and torso were mangled, subjected a hundred times over to the studies of twenty something medical students. 

Those gremlins would love to have a look at something like this, she thinks. Christ, I want to dissect myself.

The bile rising in her throat is pushed down by raw fascination as she pokes and prods the arm that she’s decided belongs on an examination table. As she kneads the tender flesh, a dull roar buzzes at the back of her skull, a million voices all trying to be heard. One voice pierces through the rest, building in her chest and throat, clawing to get out. 

Moira looks up into the rearview mirror and locks eyes with her panicked reflection. A cold sweat breaks out across her forehead and her fingers twitch, dancing across her thighs. They tap a rhythm with the raindrops that are beginning to peck at the roof of the car. The sawing of a fiddle swells in her mind, the blood rushing in her ears, rain drumming. The music rises and for a terrifying second the car is gone from beneath her and she’s sitting in a war torn field, bodies strewn about. The rain is pouring as Moira staggers to her feet, soaked to the bone. 

She goes to take a step but she’s rooted to the spot. The ground sucks at her oxfords, staining the light tan leather a dark, ruddy color. She gags as mud and carnage seeps into the cuffs of her pants and pours into her shoes, but her legs refuse to move. Her feet are miring in the blood of her kin. This thought burns in Moira’s mind, and she knows it to be true, though she doesn't know how. When fog begins to roll over the hills and comes barreling towards her, Moira’s chest tightens and she claws at her ankles, desperately trying to wrench them from the mud. An aching moan chases the fog down the hillside, pure agony that draws an icy finger down Moira’s spine. The wailing snaps the world around her into razor sharp focus, everything too close, too clear. She feels the grit between her toes, the hot tears on her cheeks, and she can feel the scream building once again in her chest when a loud BANG jerks her out of the vision. 

Moira falls forward and yelps as her knees meet hard asphalt. She blinks the wetness from her eyes and she’s back in Zurich, kneeling on the blacktop in the pelting rain while the attendants shut the trunk of the car, finished with loading her luggage. A voice barks at her and one of the attendants rushes over. 

“Shit, what the fuck!”

“Ma’am, are you alright? Ma’am?!” 

A pair of warm hands curl around her shoulders and she jerks to her feet, shaking him off. She ignores their yelps of protest as she wobbles back to the car and slinks inside. When she slams the door shut their voices are muffled, like the demons whispering now in the back of her mind. Silvery figures flutter just out of sight, tattered robes licking at the edges of her vision. 

Moira grits her teeth. Her violent shivering slows as she peels off her soaked button down. She never thought she’d ever be caught stripping in a glorified taxi cab but here she was twisting the sopping wet fabric around her bony knuckles. The car rumbles to life and the chauffeur, a wonderfully silent omnic, produces a blanket from beneath the passenger seat. She quietly thanks him as he hands it back to her. His fans whir, happy that he could be of service. She curls into the rough woolen fabric, and although lukewarm rainwater is pooling in her seat, Moira’s not about to take her pants off as well.

The trip to the Overwatch headquarters is short, but to Moira it feels like a lifetime. While the vibrant Swiss countryside rushes by, her mind is back in Ireland next to her mother’s deathbed, wishing she’d paid more attention to the dying woman’s fevered ramblings of curses and monsters.

…

October 5th, 2067, 7:30:00

Angela Ziegler wonders how many of her coworkers would believe her if she told them monsters were real. Not the monsters they face everyday, of course. Terrorists and crime syndicates are terrifying in their own human way, but the monsters she dreams of and read about in her mother’s spellbook as a child are another kind of horror. Her dreams have been worse as of late, plagued by the same specter every night for the past month.

Coffee in hand to ward off the eye bags from another restless night, Angela shuffles down a pristine hallway in the general direction of her lab. Last night the dream changed, and when she awoke tangled in her sheets with tear stained cheeks and a lump in her throat long before her alarm was set to go off, she decided to say fuck it and abandon sleep entirely, favoring a few more hours to work on her current project. 

She regrets her decision now. She actually regretted it at precisely 6:30 AM, when she remembered far too late that she was supposed to be part of the welcoming committee for a fresh batch of medical interns at 8 AM sharp. She looks like death in a gray Henley and rumpled slacks, but her appearance is the least of her concerns. 

She pauses by the plate glass windows overlooking the outdoor training grounds. The weather does nothing to lift her spirits. The pristine green fields are turning to soup under the onslaught of rain and the mountains in the distance are shrouded in gloom. She glares at her haggard reflection and goes over the dream in her mind again, trying to pinpoint where it went wrong. The exact moment when the darkness found a crack in her defenses and wormed its way inside.

The dream began as it always does, with her wandering through a forest in nothing but a long black dressing gown. She can sense the shadows slithering beneath the stately pines around her, but they keep their distance. She treads carefully over the blanket of fallen needles, following the light of the pale moon hanging heavy in the sky. Then, right on cue, the screams begin. Unearthly howling knifes through the darkness, piercing her skull. She knows those screams, and she runs, not wanting to come face to face with the source. Her heart pounds in her chest and thorns catch the hem of her robe, shredding the black silk as she crashes through the underbrush. She emerges in the clearing, bathed in milky moonlight, but this time she is not alone. 

A pale, lonely woman, drifts from beneath the trees. Her feet skim the frosted grass and her head is tilted back as though she is admiring the glittering stars above. Her silver hair floats around her, concealing her face. Angela digs her toes into the earth and leans backwards, every fiber of her being screaming to go back to the darkness, she’ll be safe there. But how could something so light, so beautiful, be dangerous? 

Beautiful things are dangerous all the time, she tells herself. The most beautiful creatures are usually the most deadly. 

Her feet move forward, the damp grass clinging to her legs. And then she is face to face with the woman, that creature, and she’s crying. She can feel the spirit’s fear, anguish, and rage. She’s so alone, and terrified. When the woman lifts her chin with a single jagged claw and opens her jaws, black, broken teeth glistening in the moonlight, Angela screams with her.

Lighting forks across the sky and thunder crashes close behind, shaking Angela from the memory. Her hand is trembling and her coffee spills over the edges of the flimsy paper cup, staining her thumb. As she wipes the droplets on her pant leg she realizes it’s gone cold. She turns on her heel and tosses the cup into a nearby garbage can before continuing to her lab.

The lab is her solace, her one reprieve from the madness of the outside world. Nothing can touch her here. Not the silliness of human affairs nor the forces of the supernatural. When the frosted glass doors whoosh closed behind her, she sighs and collapses at her desk. She eyes the notes and formulas scrawled across her holo-board, waiting where she left them the day before, begging to be broken down and discovered. She grimaces and instead reaches beneath her desk, feeling for the slightest imperfection in the smooth wood. Angela finds the false covering and pops it open. When she reaches inside and clasps the spine of a worn leather tome, warmth shocks her fingertips and spreads through her body.

The heat burning through her blood eases to a soft glow as she cracks open the book and skims her fingertips over a crimson signature scrawled on the inside cover. She would get to the bottom of this and find the source of whatever was plaguing her dreams. She wouldn’t let the life she worked so hard to leave behind ruin everything she had built. At least, not without a fight. 

“Alright, Mutter; we have work to do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update guys! I'm going to try to stick to a schedule, but unfortunately life doesn't always allow that :( I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

October 5th, 2067, 09:30:00

By the time they reach the Overwatch headquarters, the state of Moira’s pants has gone from uncomfortable to unbearable. They’re no drier but they’ve stiffened, clinging to every crease in her lower half. She unfolds from the car once they’ve stopped and heads for the trunk. The agents waiting to bring in her luggage exchange unsure glances as she roots around in her suitcase for a top. 

She pulls on her trusty teal cashmere sweater and slips the blanket off in one swift motion. When she turns to face the agents the blanket is draped neatly across her arm and her hair is pushed back off her face. Feeling confident that she no longer looks as ghastly as she feels, she nods at the agents and strides towards the large glass double doors. They slide open silently before her and she’s greeted with curious stares from the guards in the lobby. 

Of course the Overwatch agents don’t have a clue who she is. Gabe made sure of it. Moira knows they’re trying to put the pieces together as they take in her Blackwatch escorts. 

She spares them nothing more than a baleful sneer as she dumps the sodden blanket into the taller agent's arms. She can hear an indignant scoff behind her as she glides towards the elevators. A snicker comes from one of the Blackwatch agents trailing her. Perhaps Blackwatch will be a better fit than she anticipated.

They descend to the lower levels where she’s escorted past the bright, shiny labs designated to Overwatch researchers. They pass through a heavy metal door at the end of the hallway and emerge into an almost identical hallway. It's darker, and much colder. Red lamps hum on the walls caged in by metal bars and a wet earthy scent clings to the cement walls. 

They reach her new lab and she’s pleased to see there’s already a nameplate designating it as such. She can’t help the thrill that races up her spine as she slides her passcard in the panel by the door and is greeted with a small beep. There’s nothing quite like staking your claim in a new laboratory, and this time she has the advantage of having it all to herself. Well, herself and an intern Gabe insisted she have help. 

She’ll no doubt prove herself useless within the next few days and I can be rid of her, Moira thinks. I can’t have an amateur meddling where she doesn’t belong. 

The doors hiss and slide open into pitch darkness. The light from the hallway casts her shadow in sharp relief on the tile floor. She reaches inside and feels for a light switch on the wall. When the lab in all of its state of the art glory is illuminated, she finds herself without a barb on the tip of her tongue. 

“It’s beautiful,” Moira says aloud and she can feel the agents behind her shuffle awkwardly. She rolls her eyes and steps inside motioning for them to follow her. The small wave of her hand sends shooting pain through her torso and she clenches her jaw. The sooner she can send them off the better. She eyes them as they lug in her suitcases hoping to intimidate them into moving faster. 

The relief that comes from slumping her shoulders the second they leave is embarrassing. Maintaining the rigid posture that’s usually second nature is exhausting. She groans and sits next to her new desk, her legs splay across the tile and the frigid metal bites into her shoulder blades through the soft wool of her sweater. She tries to focus on that instead of the repulsive limb cradled in her lap.

She rolls up her sleeve and a quick glance confirms that yes, it’s still purple, and a squeeze from her left hand tells her that it’s also still gross to touch. It looks even worse than it did that morning; the flesh is soft and mottled like bruised produce, interrupted by bulging veins and thick cords of muscle. The harsh fluorescents don’t help.

She glances at her watch. Her new lab assistant should be arriving in about thirty minutes. Moira grimaces and rolls her sleeve back down. As much as she doesn’t want an assistant, it would be best to not scare off the help before she even opens her mouth. 

She shoots another glare at her arm before rising to her feet and eyeing her luggage. She’d really prefer to have it put away before her assistant arrives. This proves to be easier said than done as she drags it into her attached living quarters. She’s grateful she at least has this small miracle. She thinks she might actually die if she had to transfer everything to a separate dorm. She doesn’t know why she complained about it initially at all. It’s not like she has a social life outside of work anyways. 

When she finds she can barely lift her suitcase onto her bed a new wave of panic sets in followed by fury. She can feel her face flushing in anger and her pulse begins to rise, the pounding beginning again like it did at the airport. This time it’s harder to fight it. 

She has work to do here. She has plans. Big plans. 

“A rotten, outdated family curse is not going to get in my way,” Moira says and clenches her fist, fighting the urge to scream. God, she could just scream right now. It’s thrashing around in her chest clawing at her lungs. But something tells her that if she starts screaming now, she won’t be able to stop. She won’t want to stop. She needs everyone to shut up for two fucking seconds but the voices keep screeching over one another, all desperately trying to be heard, and she needs to get a fucking grip because she is not going to be seen like this, not after she worked so hard to regain a scrap of her reputation. 

The fury builds in her chest and a keening wail leaks from between her clenched teeth. She needs to get rid of the anger somehow. There’s no one to berate or snap at, no morally ambiguous experiments she can lose herself in. She abandons her luggage and paces back into the laboratory, searching for something to release the pressure building in her head. 

Moira knows she’s lost it when the room starts to whirl around her. A kaleidoscope of bright lights and cold tile stitched together with harsh metal. As the voices rise to a crescendo she knows she can’t hold it in any longer. She opens her mouth, and the most horrible sound she’s ever heard tears from her throat. For all of her ethically compromising studies and venomous tirades, this is the first time she’s ever been scared of herself. 

She tries to wrench her jaws shut, tries to stop the voices. That’s when her arm starts to tremble. The skin writhes and bubbles, veins pulsing and glowing beneath the translucent flesh. She screeches and claws at her skin, digging at the burning pain that marches up and down her arm. Her fingers darken and shrivel, looking like the final stages of necrosis. 

For a single second, a heartbeat of time, Moira’s mind clears and she watches her hand as it flies outwards from her body when a woman with a light blonde ponytail and furious ice blue eyes rushes into her laboratory. A ghoulish purple light erupts from the palm of her hand and hurtles towards the woman. The hissing orb collides with the woman and dissolves into a cloud of smoke. It pools on the floor around the woman's feet and tendrils grab at her arms and legs. 

Moira is fascinated when the woman’s skin where it was touched by the smoke turns gray and sickly. They both crumple to the floor and as Moira tumbles into darkness her head pounds with excitement, wondering if this curse may also be a blessing. 

...

October 5th, 2067, 09:45:00

When the interns arrived at 8 AM, Angela played the part of a perfect tour guide. For almost two hours her cheeks have ached from the bright grin plastered on her face and she’s been unwavering in her patience when answering questions. But she clenches her fists in the pockets of her lab coat and curses as the minutes tick by slower than molasses. Her eyes burn from keeping her lids forced open and her third helping of coffee inches towards the bottom of the cup. 

By the time the small group finishes their lunch and prepares to head to the physics department, Angela is happier than she should be to hand them off to Winston. She slips the scientist a sympathetic grimace before scurrying down the hallway and out of sight. 

The trek to her lab is hindered by the never ending stream of scientists and physicians bidding her good morning and wishing her well. She grits her teeth and smiles and nods in acknowledgement but her sneakers scuff even quicker across the linoleum. She takes a too sharp turn and nearly tumbles down the stairwell she ducks into.

When she reaches her lab the bound leather tome is right where she left it on her desk. She takes a moment to admire the sight before her. Her desk is a small piece of her personal life that she’s allowed into her office. She usually likes to keep her work and home life separate, but the carved oak behemoth was comforting on the most stressful of days. She swore she could still smell her father’s cologne clinging to the varnish. 

She sighs and slouches into the cushy armchair behind her desk. The dark red leather is set against intricately carved wood inlaid with gold leaf. It still holds the warmth of her mother’s sun drenched reading room. Vintage statement furniture wasn’t usually her cup of tea, but she made an exception for the last pieces of her parents that she had left. Sitting at her father’s desk thumbing through her mother’s Book of Shadows and basking in the familiarity, it was easy to forget why she abandoned her family magic in the first place. Until she reaches a scorched page at the very back of the book.

The spell is written in a hurried script, the frantic letters chasing each other across the paper. The ink is a dark red that’s faded a bit with time. Angela recognizes it as Dragon’s Blood. As she leans closer to squint at the smudged words her nostrils fill with the scent of iron and cold dirt. She claps a hand over mouth and gags and slams the book shut. Tears begin to sting her eyes and she can feel a familiar anger rising in her chest.

“You gave everything you had to help those people.” The words stick in her throat and she coughs into her shoulder. “You gave them your life, and it still wasn’t enough…”

It was fine, completely, totally, one hundred percent fine, that she was forced to grow up without her mother, and not once had she ever heard even a thank you. Let alone an apology for what they did to her. And here she was giving her own life to help others in need, working for a military organization no less. But they give her what she needs to do her research, so she keeps her mouth shut. 

She shudders as she pries the cover open once more and begins her search. The only thing keeping her at Overwatch and not in a regular hospital or city of research like Oasis are the people she saves. If she didn’t stop the supernatural storm barreling their way, all of her efforts would be for nothing. 

She begins the slow work of deciphering her mother’s messy cursive, poring over every page. The sheer amount of information her mother managed to cram into one book is staggering. Angela sighs and pinches her nose in exasperation. Of course she couldn’t make it easy for her. She’s about to throw the book across the room when the page her elbow is resting on twitches. 

She raises an eyebrow and slowly slides her arm off of the book. The pages flutter, ruffled by a soft breeze. Angela’s eyes widen as the pages begin to turn themselves. Her lab fills with the sound of rapid flapping and she sinks back in her chair. She clutches the wooden arms to ground herself, making sure sleep deprived delirium isn’t catching up to her. The pages glow with golden light and turn faster and faster until they abruptly stop. Angela eyes the book before leaning forward to squint at the passage before her.

“Die Todesfee?” Angela murmurs the words under her breath and the pages glow again. Unease twists in her stomach. She’s never seen the book act like this before. She couldn’t imagine it was her own intent influencing it, she wasn’t nearly focused enough to accomplish that sort of feat. Hope tickles at the back of her mind even as she reads about omens of death and evil faeries. It’s dangerous to hope her mother might be trying to help her from beyond the grave, but the feeling nestles itself in her chest anyways.

As her finger finds the end of the entry, a warm gust of air rushes over her. Her bangs tickle her cheeks, the collar of her lab coat snaps against her throat, and Angela’s vision becomes crowded at the edges. The wind caresses her shoulders and gives them a light squeeze. Angela swallows against the choking pain in her throat. She shakes off the affectionate gesture and swipes at the tears pooling in her eyes.

“And just what would you like me to do with this information, Mutter? A banshee? Really? I think I’d know if one of my coworkers was a screeching harbinger of death.” 

She would know, right? She didn’t think her powers were so suppressed she wouldn’t notice a beacon of danger if it was right under her nose. Angela groans and balls her fists against her forehead. She supposes this is what she deserves for trying to deny her bloodline for so long. Death would always find her, no matter how hard she tried to cheat it. 

She huffs and rises to her feet. She roots around in her top drawer for her wallet and double-checks to make sure she has her metro pass.

“Of course it’s an evil spirit! Why wouldn’t it be?” A string of expletives follows as she shoves her belongings into an old beat-up handbag. She would need an expert to help with this and she knew just where to find one. She trades her lab coat for a chunky cable knit cardigan and prepares herself to face the outside world. As she steps out of her lab, her train of thought is interrupted by a distant wailing. An unearthly, supernatural wailing. 

Goosebumps prickle down her spine and she clutches the strap of her bag. She turns and squints down the hallway, towards the Blackwatch wing. She can see the ominous red lamps flickering through the small window at the top of the heavy doors. She takes one hesitant, dread filled step before she’s sprinting down the hallway. She skids to a stop and curses because she has yet to be cleared for a pass card to the Blackwatch laboratories. Protocol be damned, she lets her hand glow with golden light and swipes it over the locking mechanism and slips through the doors. 

She can see immediately which room all the commotion is coming from. Eerie purple light is spilling out of the third lab on the left. She races to the lab and grips the door frame as she swings inside, closing the door behind her. The hair on her arms raises and electricity crackles over skin at the sight before her. 

A tall slender woman with fiery red hair is standing in the middle of the lab, screaming, air swirling around her. The small tornado is laced with papers, folders, and bright purple light that’s emanating from the woman’s right arm. Angela can feel her magic curdling in her stomach. A direct opposition to whatever the hell is coursing through this woman’s veins. 

She fingers twitch as she tries to figure out how to calm the spirit, when the woman notices her. She screeches and points her gnarled claws at her. Angela barely has time to brace herself before the blast of energy hits her in the stomach. 

She grunts and is flung backwards into the wall. The magic, raw power with no control, dissipates almost immediately, but tendrils of smoke cling to her arms and legs. She can feel it sapping her strength, leaving her skin cold and clammy. The doctor growls and paws at her limbs, tries to step out of reach of the smoke now rolling across the floor, but her knees meet the tiles as her vision fades to black and she bites out one last curse as her and the banshee both collapse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> Die Todesfee, n., German- Banshee  
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3 Hopefully I will be able to have a consistent weekly or bi-weekly update schedule, along with requests on my blog!
> 
> Mutter- Mother


End file.
